The Runaway
by silverhelix428
Summary: 3 years post-finale, Rory is one of the brightest rising stars of journalism. But living the dream comes with a price, and when it comes time to pay up, Rory finds she only has one place to run... Lit. Not as dark as it sounds! Trust me, it's worth it.
1. Prologue: The Runaway

**Title-** The Runaway**  
Author-** Victoria**  
Pairing- **Lit**  
****Rating-** PG-13, though I suspect strong language will come into play to push that boundary. And just maybe a bit of smut, if I feel up to it...**  
****Summary- **3 years post-finale, Rory is one of the brightest rising stars of journalism. But living the dream comes with a price, and when it comes time to pay up, Rory finds she only has one place to run...

**A.N-** I apologize if my computer jargon is a little off-base. I know the terms, and I even know what some of them mean, but when you get down to the nitty-gritty, I'm a bit lost.

* * *

Prologue: Run

_"Into the night,_  
_Desperate and broken._  
_Sound of a fight,_  
_Father has spoken..."_  
_-30 Seconds to Mars _

* * *

Her mind is running on autopilot, because if she thinks about this, she's going to panic, and she _can't_ panic, because when she panics she does stupid things and with no one here to calm her down, she'll make a mistake. One false move now...

Rory doesn't want to think about that. She can't think about how close she's already come.

She thanks god now for all the times during those wild nights in her Yale days when Logan would tell her to take the wheel. If it weren't for those adrenaline-filled hours of screaming through the midnight streets as fast as his Porsche (or sometimes the Audi, if the Porsche was in for a tune-up) could go, she would never have had the driving skills to competently handle the past few minutes, let alone surviving at all.

A few white-knuckled breaths are all she has time for. Then the sound of a vehicle cruising slowly through nearby streets makes her blood jump and her stomach boil, and she leaps out of the car. She stares at the three neat bullet holes in the rear window of her car- it's a Nissan, sensible and fuel-efficient, perfect for her commute- and the two spaced neatly in the back gate.

There's that panic again, and she suppresses it. Plenty of time to break down when she finds somewhere safe. _Think clearly now, Rory._

It's a moist, foggy night, and for that she's grateful. Intuition tells her that without the atmospheric conditions on her side, she could easily be at the bottom of the Hudson River right now. She glances to her right, and through the mist she sees the glowing Brooklyn Bridge rising up from the river. Her hands are shaking. She clenches and relaxes them a few times to stop the tremor. _Not. Now._

Over the last three years, Rory has gotten very good at finding people who may or may not particularly want to be found. She knows the most common methods. Quickly, she grabs her cell phone and hurls it into the Hudson. It would be too easy for someone with any kind of satellite access (and they undoubtedly would) to track her phone's signal back to her. The Blackberry, the Bluetooth headset, and the iPhone follow the phone into the water. It's an expensive twenty seconds, but if she lives to see her grandparents again, she's sure they'd be more than happy to help her replace the items. And anyway, it's going to a good cause: keeping her alive.

She looks through the window of her car and remembers, just in time, to grab her laptop. This thing is her bargaining chip for her life if she needs it. Back when she got the first inkling that maybe this was bigger than she'd initially thought, she'd gotten Doyle to put heavy encryptions on all her files and rerouted her IP signal in order to make the sleek silver notebook as untraceable as possible. Rory crams the computer into her oversized purse- no fancy, functionless Birkin bag, this- and picks a direction.

Rory isn't entirely sure where she's going. All she's sure of is that she needs to be unpredictable. She has to go as far against her instincts as possible, and avoid any potential patterns that a profiler looking at her records could pick up on. That means no Lorelai, and no Lane. She wouldn't go to Paris anyway. As she treks through the shipping yards where she abandoned her car on the waterfront, she wracks her brain for more options.

_Deep breaths, Rory. You're going to be okay..._

_

* * *

_**A/N2-** Future chapters will have more substance. That's what prologues are for, right? Just so you're aware, I've got a very clear beginning, middle, and end laid out for this fic. No worries about this meandering around and having epic!fail at any point. Also, although this prologue is rather dark and ominous, I promise there's some levity in here as well. After all, it *is* Drama/Romance/Friendship/Suspense/Humor/Hurt/Comfort/Mystery etc. etc... ;) Seriously, it's going to have some cute and sweet times amidst all the wild sh*t going down...


	2. 1: The Final Option

**A/N- **Psh, only five reviews? Shame! Shame on you all! To those of you who DID review... thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.  
The lyrics I used for this chapter are from Brandon Flower's single 'Crossfire' from his solo album, and it's such a Lit song it almost kills me. I'm not one for songfics. At all. But this song... there's something about it.

Also? I totally bought a sonic screwdriver today.

* * *

Chapter 1: The Final Option

_"There's a still in the street outside your window_  
_You're keepin' secrets on your pillow_  
_Let me inside, no cause for alarm_  
_I promise tonight not to do no harm."_  
_-Brandon Flowers_

* * *

Rory isn't quite sure where she can go.

That's a lie.

She knows exactly where she has to go. There's really only one place she _can_ go.

Fleeing to seek shelter in Stars Hollow is predictable, therefore bad. No one there can help her now, not even if she goes to Kirk (which she wouldn't, anyway, because though he's a great replacement for Caesar, he's not so great in life-or-death situations). Paris is also off-limits; she wouldn't be able to make it to Boston undetected. Lucy and Olivia are both in New York, and either one would welcome her with open arms, but though she loves her friends dearly, she's not sure they can be trusted with important things. Like keeping her alive long enough to bust this thing open. Logan is... off-limits. Way off-limits, for several reasons. She knows a few other people who would probably be willing to help her, but they're all too far away.

Which leaves her one option, and one option only. It's a choice that makes her feel sick with nerves... but she can't actually really tell if that's true, because she's feeling sick anyway. Gunshots are still echoing in her ears and she's shaking again and she focuses her mental energy to calming her jumping heart once more.

When she's settled, Rory looks up. She's been walking all this while, and finds that she's reached her destination- the streets just below the bridge. She hails a cab as quickly as possible, glancing around quickly. She barks a street address at the cabbie.

It's a street in the south part of SoHo, near where Lucy lives with New Boyfriend, whom Rory has yet to meet. But she's not going to Lucy and Boyfriend. The thing about SoHo is this: it's close to Greenwich Village. And where she's going is most definitely Village territory.

When a second Truncheon location opened in the Village a year and a half ago, Luke was the proudest uncle he could have possibly been. He clumsily used the laser printer her mother talked him into buying to make dozens of copies of the flyer Jess sent him and hung them all over the diner. Rory memorized them. She can recite the address in her sleep if she needs to. And she knows, from overhearing one of Luke's not-so-private phone conversations in the diner, that Jess lives in a small apartment above the art house.

A few times, she thought about visiting. She never did. Something told her it would be a bad idea.

Now, though, she has no real choice. Jess is her last hope, and she's praying he won't turn her away, because if he does, she's as good as dead. She doesn't think he will, though, because he's too much like his uncle for that. He's not as much of a tough guy as he'd like everyone to think.

Or at least, he was. Rory knows she doesn't really have the right to make character judgments about Jess now. She hasn't seen him in over four years, not since that disastrous final meeting in the original Truncheon. Thinking about _that_ makes her sick, too.

She knows (or has convinced himself) that it wasn't as big a deal as her cramping, twisting stomach tells her it was. It didn't mean... _things_... to Jess. She's sure it can't have. By that point, it had been years since they'd been together-together. He didn't still have those feelings, he couldn't possibly have. Rory can't lie; she can't say she _didn't_, because she's pretty sure she did. She's long since accepted that a part of her will always have strong feelings for Jess- which is going to make knocking on his door, begging for his help difficult- but she's also long since accepted that they just don't work. He's the Christopher to her Lorelai- it doesn't matter about the feelings, because realistically they won't make it.

But her thoughts are wandering. Back to that awful night.

She could see in his eyes that he was angry with her. He had a right to be mad; she had used him atrociously, and even in the absence of stronger feelings, that was a nasty blow to his ego, if nothing else. Admittedly, she's been avoiding situations which might throw them together again. When he was in town to celebrate his baby sister's second birthday, she made a point to be unable to make it because of work. She doesn't want to see the disapproval and, maybe, anger in his eyes when he looks at her.

If the situation weren't so dire tonight, she wouldn't even dare to go to him now. She's just going to have to take the chance that he'll be at least civil. Even she isn't optimistic enough to hope for the same easy manner they used to have, even after awkward situations and bad partings. It's a likely chance that she's broken that pretty thoroughly. But if he'll just let her inside, she'll settle for anything she can get.

The cab spits her out onto the sidewalk in SoHo. She has a fifteen block walk to get to Jess', without leaving a trace of herself.

By the time she's walked three of those, the foggy night has turned into a miserable, drizzling, rainy one. It's almost clichéd. She thinks about Poe's Theory of a Single Effect and thinks, a little hysterically, that old Edgar would be pleased.

* * *

It is past midnight when the buzzer goes off. Jess is not asleep. He's rarely asleep before four or five in the morning. He's writing- or at least, _trying_ to write- a new novel, and it seems his muse hates sunlight. As a result, the only times he's been able to produce anything of value have been in the dead of night or the occasional rainy day. And now that he has both on his side, the goddamn doorbell is ringing like crazy.

He hits the 'talk' button on the com. "Who is it?" he barks, annoyed at the interruption.

Long silence.

"It's... it's me," a dangerously familiar voice quivers back. She sounds like she's about to cry. "It's Rory."

"What are you doing here?"

"Can I come in?"

He sighs. "The door to the shop's locked. Give me five minutes." He shuts off the com.

Pants. He needs pants. He had just gotten out of the shower when inspiration struck, and only had time to pull on whichever pair of boxers his hand found first. He is _not_ seeing her for the first time in four years (three months, one week, and some-odd days) with no pants on.

And what the hell about that? What the hell is _she_ doing here at- he checks his watch- twenty-one minutes past midnight on a Thursday? Not any particular Thursday, either. Just... Thursday. After the last time they saw each other, he honestly didn't know what to think. He had found it hard to think, what with the goddamn utter devastation and all. After the last time they _spoke_ to each other... well, he thought he'd never see her again...

* * *

_His phone rang loudly, shocking him out of the lazy not-quite-drunk-but-getting-there state he'd been in for the past ten minutes or so while he contemplated whether retrieving the bottle of gin from the nightstand was worth the energy._

_"'Lo?" he mumbled sleepily._

_"Jess?"_

_It was her._

_He sat up sharply, and was glad he wasn't quite drunk, because in fifteen minutes or so, that move wasn't going to happen. "Rory?" he asked._

_He hated how hopeful his voice sounded._

_"I... Jess..." _

_She sounded a little choked up. Like she was trying hard not to cry._

_"What?" he barked out._

_"I'm at Lane's wedding," she said._

_He didn't say anything. He didn't want to sound interested in the slightest because _goddamnit_, he should be _over_ this by now! Isn't breaking your heart supposed to destroy the love you have for somebody? Just fucking figures he would be the exception to the rule. Stupid, defective heart..._

_"My best friend got married this afternoon, Jess." She took a shaky breath. "When we were younger, we used to plan a double wedding. She was gonna marry... well, that changed almost daily. For awhile it was gonna be Dave, but she changed her mind and said she'd rather have Jim Morrison, back from the grave."_

_"What are you rambling about?" he ground out. Normally he found her babbling to be adorable, but her rejection, still only a week distant now, was smarting and all her little quirks he found so endearing became constantly annoying simply because _he couldn't have her.

_"Yeah, but the only piece missing was the guy I was gonna marry. I never told anyone, Jess, not anyone." She really is crying now, not bothering to hide it. "Jess, I always thought it would be you."_

_Scarlet anger flashed through him. "No," he snapped. "Just stop, Rory. Just fucking stop. You don't get to screw with my mind like this. I'm done with your drama and your mindgames so unless you can figure out what the hell you want, just leave me alone, damn it!"_

_He hung up._

_His phone didn't ring again. _

_He drank more._

_

* * *

_Stairs are tripping him up, coming towards him too fast as he races down. He tries to shake himself sensible. It's been years. He's over her. Those feelings are long, long gone. Yeah, he'll probably always care for her, but it's just not gonna work. They're like two puzzle pieces that _look_ like they should fit, but when you actually try to slot them together...

He sighs, and physically forces himself to slow as he descends the narrow stair.

This is good. He's good. Despite the weird circumstances, this can finally be some closure. He's had trouble keeping relationships for longer than a few months, and he's sure it's because, over her or not, they didn't really have a proper ending, not when he ran after Jimmy, not when she turned him away at her dorm, and certainly not that night, so many years ago, in Philly.

Closure.

Yeah.

Closure is good.

He reaches up above the door frame and pulls down the key. He unlocks the door, and leaves his fingers resting on the handle for a few moments, breathing in deep.

This is it.


End file.
